


Love Is Not Enough

by longlaw



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), Love Letters, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26521504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longlaw/pseuds/longlaw
Summary: One minute, Steve is sketching the rough lines of his best friend’s face.The next, all he has left is that sketch, and dozens of letters to be burned.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Love Is Not Enough

**Author's Note:**

> (work does include a bit of homophobic language/internalized homophobia)

_ And I wish that we could stay there,  _

_ right there, forever, but I promise you that  _

_ I will always remember. _

**______________ **

_ November, 1941  _

Fingers flutter over the page, loosely clasped around a drawing pencil. They’ve made a home in the paper, tucked into a leather sketchbook worn with ink stains and scribbles, and show no signs of exhausting, at least until the subject of the sketch stirred in the makeshift bed he had made on the floor of old pillows and quilts belonging to a past grandmother. Not expecting a sudden movement, the fingers slammed the cover of the sketchbook closed, though the subject had seen the drawings countless times before, had even commented on them. He had never known he had freckles until he saw them in a sketch, sprinkled like pepper over his ears and left cheek. The truth was, he had a lot more than freckles. 

Turning the cover back only when the subject stilled, the fingers traced over the name in the corner. Steven G. Rogers. Sometimes it felt as if this name were disconnected to the art. Steven didn’t draw his friend in countless modeling positions, fawning over each like the world’s biggest secret queer. That was someone else entirely, and wasn’t to be confused with the young man who walked the streets with a suit and tie every evening, wishing those he passed a good Shabbos. Still, the memory of pepper freckles and soft lips did not leave him, no matter who he was at a given moment. 

Puffs of steam comparably to that of a cigar and just as intoxicating choked the sky, the heavy air twisting his lungs as the soldiers’ departure did his heart. It wouldn’t be long, James had told him, tugging his cap down. Sweethearts kissed and embraced, exchanging tearful goodbyes and promises of future letters and care packages. Though he may have wanted to, he didn’t touch James. Scared if he did so, even for a second, he may never work up the courage to let go. A brief handshake connected them, not nearly as reflective of their relationship, but safe enough to keep things better left unsaid and undone under wraps. 

Heavy uniform boots walked down the paved train station, and Steve hung back with the wives, mothers, and children, a hole in his chest as he watched the soldiers pack onto the train, whooping and hollering, pulling James easily into their games. For a moment, he glanced out a side window, and moved his arm to wave, but was pulled away, leaving the window a fogged barrier between safety and uncertainty. Two friends kept far apart because of a list of physical ailments. It was possible that was for the best. Perhaps they could’ve never worked out any other way. 

The first letter came two months into America’s involvement in the war, a crisp white envelope with several necessities stamped over it. The very second he had it in his possession, Steve ripped it open, eager for news of any kind after having waited so patiently. He’d nearly lost his mind, worrying himself sick, turning through old scrapbook pages and smiling and black and white photographs. 

He was well, there was no news so far, or at least none that he could disclose. But there was one section of the letter in particular that interested him, especially after having read it over twice and feeling his cheeks start to pain with smiling too hard. 

_ I miss your sketches, S. I really do. The way you draw me is always so flattering, no matter that I hardly look as good in real life. Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a sketch, just you and I? You could draw up a wonderful house, with all new floors and painted walls. Pink painted walls, I sure love that color, don’t you? It would be safe there. Kind and gentle, and we would never have to leave each other’s side again, besides from when you inevitably get sick and tired of my whining for a shoulder rub.  _

_ Draw something pretty for me, won’t you? I will write again as soon as I can. _

The way James wrote seemed to be just exactly how he talked, slow and careful, always taking time to find the perfect next word. But it wasn’t just the writing that halted his thoughts, but what it meant. Or, rather, what Steve wanted it to mean. 

Just a letter, he reminds himself, slipping it back in its envelope and tucking it between particularly nostalgic scrapbook pages. Just a letter, an update, and he would have to write one back. Immediately, he took up a place on a worn down couch and plucked a pen from the metal can on the coffee table, and sheet of paper. 

It was possible he was reading too much into James’ written words. If he had been available to say them in person, he was sure they would not sound so . . . the first word that crossed his mind was flirtatious. Had it been? No, James wouldn’t have . . . then why had he not written ‘Steve’ instead of ‘S’? 

He would write back. As a test, or rather a blind hope, he would put a line so flirtatious that it would be impossible to ignore. And if James didn’t reciprocate, then, well, he would know. The risks far outweighed any positive outcome that might’ve stemmed from this decision, he knew, but he had already written it, and wasn’t one to waste paper. 

_ March, 1942  _

_ I have been catching myself thinking of you more often that I think of anything else. When I wake, I expect to see you beside me, curled under blankets and a peaceful expression that is rarely seen when you are awake. All that I see is a gun, and a hat, ready for battle. I eat what I am given and I think about sharing it with you, over a little oak table, with candles on a fine Friday evening. That reminds me, Pesach is fast approaching, I assume, a few nights left. I wish you the best. Tonight when I lay my head down, I will be thinking of you. I hope someday soon I will join you under the covers again. Goodnight, S. _

_ All my affections, _

_ James _

All my affections? James’ words made his head spin. Had he reciprocated? Was this it? Surely this was it. Oh, he felt like a giddy schoolboy, jumping up and down with the letter clasped tightly in his hands like a lifeline, spinning around and around and around. His spinning took him to the old record player in the corner of his small bedroom, and he carefully set about playing Benny Goodman’s version of Sing, Sing, Sing. 

Swing dancing alone was damn near impossible, so he pretended another was there with him. James’ hands fit well in his, and as the song picked up speed, so did they. Back and forth, spinning and twirling on Steve’s finger. Eyes closed and head thrown back, he danced the song away and felt a warm grin come over him, overcome with joy and affection, just as James had closed his letter.

Sometime in June, another letter came. Steve had been coming home from a Shabbos night walk when he saw the mailman up ahead, sorting through letters. He had sprinted down the pavement as fast as his legs could carry him, hollering for his attention. With a great deal of gasping and rushed movements, he had the letter in his hands, not waiting to get inside before opening it, eager for more words to set his heart in flame. 

_ Your last letter was amusing. You asked why you had never seen me dance before. I guess I just have not found the right partner yet. You understand? Sure you do, you’ve never danced with anyone in your life, apart from me and your mother. Remember when she taught us ballroom dancing, as if we would ever need it? Pairing us together too, it was fun. I miss it. I miss you. You would be the perfect partner, I know.  _

_ S, I want to tell you something. Something I never thought I would tell anyone, and of course not you. I would not be saying a thing if it were not for these letters. These past six months of letters. Time is going by so slowly, not having you with me. Maybe I am going too fast, and you do not have to respond if you feel it would be wrong to. If you do not feel the same. S, I think I’m falling for you. Truly falling for you, and I do not know how to stop it or if I even want to. I think that I have felt this way long before I left. Maybe I just never realized my love to be true until I had to leave you.  _

_ All my affections,  _

_ James _

Closing his eyes, he held the letter to his heart with one hand and covered his mouth with the other. Oh, God. He was going to be sick. 

Weeks had passed. He had not written a single letter back to James. This was wrong, this was so wrong. Gripping the windowsill in his bedroom with tight hands that had previously been shaking, he rocked back and forth, groaning with held-back cries. When he looked out the open window to the stars, one escaped him, guttural and broken. He prayed for strength. For courage. For guidance. God, just tell him what to do.  He wanted to believe that his God wasn’t as hateful as those around him. That he would be held in strong arms, left unjudged for a feeling he couldn’t control. But was that not wishful thinking? If God had allowed such awful human beings to live, killing those like him around the world, sending them to chambers and executions, how could Steve know that God even cared? 

“Please . . . “ he choked, “Please . . .”

A thin, white face stared back at itself in the mirror. Another letter had come, short and to the point. James was worried for him. Had told him it was okay to not feel the same, but to at least confirm that he was alive and well. Things had been heating up where he was stationed. There had always been antisemitism around him. Always violent and unforgiving, but flying under the radar because of the simple truth that nobody cared, nobody but the Jews themselves. The events in Germany and around the world had not started that, nor would they end it. 

But James could no longer wear his Magen David. The strong silver one he had been given at age thirteen, that had stayed clipped around his neck and dipping into his collared shirt when it was unbuttoned enough to expose his chest. 

Steve would respond. Lifting his hand to his face, he brought the tube to his lips and painted them red. Capping it, he looked back at himself and laughed, seeing no one but a clown. Now he really  _ was  _ a queer. But when he thought of himself in regards to that word, he felt an odd sense of power. As if he were standing in front of his school bullies, the men he would fight in alleyways, and the girls who looked at him as if he were trash, and saying  _ I am queer. And what about it?  _

He kissed the end of his letter, letting the red marks of his lips dry below his words before folding it. There had been no confirmation of his feelings for James, at least not yet. Truth be told, he was not sure how he felt. 

Months pass. 1942 turned to 1943, with letters settling into a rhythm of one or two every month. Their more affectionate lines died down to a few every other month, when there was time and bravery enough to talk more about each other and their feelings instead of safe things like weather and the homefront. 

When they did talk about their feelings, James did most of the more dangerous talk, and every time, Steve wondered if he wanted him to do the same, but there was something holding him back. He wanted to be falling for James the same he was for him. Wanted to be in love. And maybe he was. Slowly falling, at the least. But every time he went to put it on paper, he found himself unable. 

Sitting in his bed with a stack of old letters at his hip, listening to a slow song on his record player, he read through one of the very first letters. Piecing together just when their relationship turned from good friends to possibly something more was difficult. Thinking back to his own actions over the years, when crushes and the like had become more important, and trying to see if there had been any indication that he might’ve fallen for his best friend, was even harder. 

Around ten years old, he had been playing in a sandbox with James and another boy. Something had happened to make the boy mad, and he had stormed off. That was the time Steve had noticed James’ tiny freckles. Something about them made his heart flutter. 

At fourteen, they had just come home from an outing that wasn’t quite a date but wasn’t quite a friendly hang-out with two girls. He remembered wanting the girls to leave, to spend the night with James alone. It should’ve been so obvious. 

And sixteen . . . Steve set the letters down, unfolding himself from the bed just as a knock on the door sounded. Jumping, he barreled down the stairs and shouted when he saw a letter on his floor. Snatching it, he headed back to his bed, deciding to make this opening nice. He cleared his bed and made it up, dusted his menorah off and straightened it on his windowsill beside the box of matches. Moving to his desk and sorting through the papers and small objects, he patted his sketchbook affectionately. 

Now for the letter. Taking up a place under the covers, he fiddled with his Magen David before carefully peeling the envelope apart. The first thing he saw upon unfolding the letter was a heart penciled in at the top, with his initial. A slow smile pulled on the corners of his lips. 

_ I apologize for the lack of letters. There was something I had to take care of. It’s done now, but I am awfully tired still, I wanted to write this before I slept, even if that means I will only get an hour at most.  _

He frowned, noticing just how tired James’ words really appeared. The once fancy handwriting was slanted, rushed. 

_ The lipstick was nice. I think the color suits you, but I would have to see it in person to know for sure. It might be best, even, if I could feel it on my own.  _

The lipstick? Or . . . 

_ What would you say to that? We could put one of your songs on that record player. You would have that lipstick on, and we would sit in your bed. Maybe you would have that sketchbook of yours out. I could think of a few new things for you to sketch.  _

Steve shifted in bed, face growing hot, sure he was reading this wrong. But he could imagine it. Sitting in bed. Sketchbook and lipstick . . . James wouldn’t have a shirt on, maybe he wouldn’t either. 

_ And I would get to touch your face, without needing to bandage a wound. Would you let me run my fingers through your hair?  _

He would. 

_ Would you let me kiss you? Even just for a second. A second would be better than nothing at all, do you agree?  _

He did. 

_ If you would allow me, I could be good at that, kissing you. A secret second, just for us.  _

Taking in a shaking breath, he slipped his hand under the covers, pushing his teeth together when his fingers brushed his thighs through jeans. His hands weren’t as strong or warm or rough as James’ but he could pretend. Needed to pretend. 

_ I have thought about this more times than I should admit to, especially after that lipstick stain. Being alone here has made me more confident, in a way. Or maybe desperate. I am not sure which, but they seem to be interchangeable.  _

Setting the letter beside him in bed, unfinished and open, he shut his eyes and shoved his hand into his jeans. They would kiss, quickly at first, but slower the next time, and slower yet the third. and Steve would let James shift in bed, climb over him and straddle his hips. So many kisses, moving from his lips to his neck, down to his collar and chest. He brought his free hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken, and slid it down to his stomach. Love bites would form over his skin in every possible place James’ could get his lips to. And when they got to his jeans, calloused fingers working Steve’s zipper . . .  _ fuck _ . 

In the colder months of the year, he made a home in his bed, nearly constantly bundled under covers and staring at the wall two inches from his face, the door shut tight behind him, a towel down in an effort to keep the savage cold out. Curtains were drawn, not even a candle lit. He didn’t play music, didn’t draw. If his stomach wasn’t clawing at his insides and eating away at him, he didn’t eat. Didn’t leave his bed. How could he, when there wasn’t a thing to leave it for, not even a bathroom trip. No, he kept himself chained to bed, letting his eyes dry out looking at that damned wall. It wasn’t hard, he didn’t want to leave. Ever. 

When the bed began to feel more like a coffin, he knew it was time to get up. Warm his cracking joints and weak bones in a boiling shower, steaming the mirror and expanding pores so easily that dirt and grime fell down the drain, he could slip his hands over his skin and feel every red bump and bone, bringing himself back to life. A shower was not enough. Nothing was. 

He stayed in bed three more days. 

After the third night, he had gathered enough strength to sit against the wall where his headboard should be, blankets draped over his sad excuse for a functioning body. So hungry that he couldn’t feel the need to eat, and even felt a wave of nausea just thinking about the kitchen, he knew that he wouldn’t be leaving his room tonight. 

Instead, he leaned to the side and opened a drawer under his bed, tugging out a sketchbook and pencil. Worn leather and crisp pages dried with the weather, he smiled faintly down at it, turning the first page. 

A black and white drawing of two women. One had her mouth open in a laugh, the other in a grin with her arm around her counterpart. In white, frilly dresses and sleek black shoes, their hair done up in curls. They held two children in their arms, one a year old already with soft brown curls, the other just a bundled infant. At the bottom of the page: 

**_June, 12, 1918_ **

He took a minute to stare, to lightly trace the pencil lines with his own and give his mother enough time to take over his mind. She was so warm, so kind, with the brightest eyes. Countless days she would spend dancing as best she could with her body quickly shutting down, singing with Steve and rustling his hair. 

_ I love you _ , she would say,  _ I love you so much, and I couldn’t be prouder of who you’re becoming _ . He wondered, briefly, if she would say the same if she knew how he would come to feel about his childhood friend. But the answer was clear, written in every smile she gave him, every laugh they shared, every candle lit and prayer sung. She loved him, he knew, and she would have accepted him, asked that he accept himself above all else.

He hadn’t quite done so, yet. Never knowing how hard it would be to accept himself, despite having entered into such a romantic relationship. It would be 1944 soon, a new year, a new chance for the war to end, for James to come back. Their reunion would be one their future generations would look back on in admiration. 

He would get someone to take their picture when James came off that train, and they would embrace so tightly his ribs would squeeze and nearly pop, but he’d be grinning and hugging back just as hard. As those around him screamed and shouted with their own loved ones, they would be so focused on each other that the rest of the world melted away, leaving them standing on the platform together, gazing into each other’s eyes for the first time in years. It had really been years, had it? 

That night, he drifted to sleep thinking about not only James, but his mother, and the love that he had for each of them, and they for him. His joints warmed under the blankets, and though his stomach was growling, stabbing with hunger pains, he was safe and comfortable, loved. 

The next night was Shabbos. For the first time in months, he took it seriously. He didn’t leave the house all day, rooting through the fridge and pantry for food. A few knots of challah, a few slices of meat, and a chunk of cheese. Everything else had either spoiled, or he didn’t have the energy to set it out. The kitchen was left unchanged when his mother died, and left all signs of still being hers. Counters polished, a small window with white flowery curtains pushed aside, old and familiar, toasty and smelling of cooking meat. A tiny circle table pushed to the corner, tiled floor scratched like the wood, and when he got closer and set a plate down, he caught little knicks in two silver candles. 

In a moment of genius, he dashed to his room and wheeled the record player through the hall, past the bathroom, and into the main room. There, he set up an old slow song, one of his mother’s past favorites, taking great care with getting it to play, not wanting it to damage any more than it already had.

When the apartment filled with the sounds of music, he stepped back, admiring the machine. It had been a source of comfort and memories more joyful and tender. Once belonging to his mother, passed on to him. A physical reminder of all that she was and would ever come to be in his lifetime. Though, by association, he had more recalls of him and James stemming from the record player than he did his mother. But her spirit was still there, and when he looked, he noticed James’ too, nestled into the wood, laughing in the notes of the playing song and filling his apartment with the most beautiful noise. 

Dinner was a leisurely affair, he took time to bless his food, his body, his mind, and pray for the health of those at war. Only when he had run out of things to say did he sit with his cup of fruit juice and begin to eat. The challah was but the sweetest thing he had ever tasted in his life. It flaked in his mouth and nearly brought tears to his eyes. The meat was tender, oils dripping down his chin and easing his stomach. 

He should do this more often. The song faded out, the food settled, the candles puffed out in wisps of smoke. Not complete, but content. 

_ January, 1944 _

_ S, _

_ I suspect this will be one of the last letters I will write to you, S. Not because I am in any immediate danger, but because the war could very well be over soon. I know we’ve said that in nearly every letter exchange, but I feel it in my bones, in my soul. But I wanted you to know, just in case, that I am in love with you. I have been for the longest time, and to write it, I hope, feels just as if I were whispering it in your ear.  _

_ I know you have been struggling with talk of such fondness, but I hope you feel the same as I do. I think you do, and I will hold in my heart that you do, as the hope is the only thing keeping me going now.  _

_ I’m running out of room and time to write. I can not give any information. I am sorry.  _

_ James  _

He held the letter with a tenderness, as if the slightest pinch may rip the paper. The wind wiped out the lantern light, leaving him sitting outside his door with only light from other apartments and the street to read by. But he’s already finished the letter, tucking it in his coat pocket and standing slowly, sniffling from a cold. His head pounded, to match the beats of his heart, and he wrapped his mittened hands around the black metal railing, looking out at the stars and wondering if James was looking at the very same ones, or if the sun was already shining where he was. 

It was May, but there had been a bit of an extended winter, except just the dry wind and ice. What had delayed James’ letter’s arrival? He knew it wasn’t unusual for letters to arrive late, had played victim to it and a lot of confusion trying to pin certain letters to their correct place in the timeline before he wrote back. But four months? 

Running a thumb along the chipped and rusted railing, he watched his breath cloud out in front of him and made comfort in the lonely silence of the night. Down on the street, a chorus of giggles bubbled up and when he glanced down, he saw a group of young women swinging arm and arm. Surely they missed their sweethearts too, but they weren’t quite as dejected as he. 

The letter burned a hole in his pocket. He should write back tonight, to ensure it got there as soon as possible, before James could write another. Oh, but what would he write? James had confessed his love for him, so it might only be fitting that he do—

James had confessed his love for him.

James had  _ confessed _ . 

Snatching the lantern, he pushed into his apartment and squealed, high-pitched and girly and simply elated. With the lantern out of his hands, he tugged the letter out and began to pace around the main room, around the couch and coffee table, to the door, and back around. 

_ But I wanted you to know, just in case, that I am in love with you.  _

_. . . that I am in love with you.  _

“That I am in love with you!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, no sympathies for those around him in their apartments. His skin heated, and he jumped around, holding the paper above his head like a child. James loved him! He would have to write a confession back! Yes, he’d have to write back and tell him that he loved him too, because he did, he honestly and truly did, and to have been holding such a monumental thing back for so long was criminal now. Scrambling for a pencil and paper, he beamed, leaning over the coffee table and about to write when something halted him. 

Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Putting his thoughts, his emotions into words on a paper that could so easily be lost, or misguided. And for it to be to a  _ man _ . Dark swirls of hatred moved around his mind, coming back with a fury. In love with a man? A nasty queer? Indecent and evil?  _ Disgusting _ ? 

He set the pencil down carefully and straightened. After a few moments, he settled on writing his letter tomorrow. Tomorrow. 

But tomorrow came and went, and still, Steve had not scrawled a single word. The dark mantras were back, calling him every name under the sun. Not even his mother’s, James’, or God’s love could tune them out. 

A week. 

Two weeks. 

Time moved differently now. 

By the month mark, he had learned how to cancel out the bad thoughts, and was seemingly back to his normal, cheery self. But he still hadn’t sent a letter. And because of this, he shut down within two days. Locked himself in his room, only coming out for the bathroom or to eat. 

_ July 1944 _

Get up. Move. Breathe. He still couldn’t write. He had to go out and buy food. His mother was dead. James was a bullet away from the same fate. He was alone. Alone. 

_ August 1944  _

A Shabbat dinner. It had been good, but not enough to keep him happy and out of bed for more than a week. The house was eerily quiet, leaving the sound of his breathing magnified, a constant reminder that he was alive. And alone. 

_ September 1944 _

A neighbor had come to visit near the end of the month, and they spent a few days together. She saw he wasn’t doing so well, and brought over a brisket. 

_ October 1944 _

Get up. Get up! What was wrong with him? Why wouldn’t his body move? He was being dramatic, there wasn’t a thing wrong with him. James had it worse, being on the frontlines, what right did Steve have to act this way? He migrated to the front couch, and started eating more. 

_ November 1944 _

He started going on walks again. Every Friday night. Sometimes the neighbor would join him. When she did, he didn’t feel quite as alone. They talked about her husband, and about James. Something told him that she knew about the status of their relationship, but if that was the case, she was good about keeping it a secret. 

_ December 1944 _

Chanukah rolled around, and he invited the neighbor over, they spent the first night playing holiday music, feasting on as many oily foods as they could find during this time, and playing dreidel on the coffee table. He slept in his bed, and got up at sunrise, taking life one day at a time. 

By the time February hit, he was a new man. It was as if the months prior had never happened. When he reread James’ letters, he got weak at the knees. His neighbor smiled when she saw him watching the sunrise one morning. He had been watching the colors merge, pink-orange-yellow, and wondering if he might paint it someday. The warm wind rippled his paint-stained tee shirt, sinking into his skin. It had been a quiet morning, had fed his soul.

And with a peaceful mind, he grabbed the paper and pencil from on the step at his side, watching the street in front of him wake and begin to bustle. Carts were wheeled out, cars chugged down the brick, old men in suits and hats took their walks, a few of them with their lips moving over a small book. 

Months of built-up words came to him then, and at first he could not stop thinking about the time he had wasted in bed, feeling sorry for himself, and for what? 

Because he felt alone. 

But he was not alone, he had James. Even when he had nothing, he had James. This time, when he held the pencil to the lined paper, he wrote. 

_February_ _1945_

_ If I could end this war, I would. If only to bring you back to me, heart steady and skin warm, alive and well, better than you ever could have been before, with such a heavy secret weighing you down. Weighing us both down, for so long. I know now, that I am in love with you, James, and have been for a long time. Fully and without hesitation, I am yours.  _

_ Come home. My only wish is that you come home.  _

_ All my love,  _

_S._

He didn’t give himself time to do anything more than put a heart at the bottom near his name. Grinning, he creased the letter in half and secured it in the envelope he had brought out with him. Looking out to the sun, he imagined James reading it. Rushing to open the envelope because  _ finally  _ he had gotten news after so long, and one simply couldn’t take his time with that, not when he was dizzy with euphoria. He would sit and read it, and the same sense of safety and pride would well in his chest when he read the word ‘love’. 

These thoughts gave way to fantasies of James returning from war. It would be a hot summer day, and he would be waiting at the train station, packed in with hundreds of women and men who couldn’t make it to the war. They would all talk amongst themselves, share food and drink. But each would be on edge, desperate to see their men. The train would come, painstakingly slow, but it would come. And when James stepped off the very steps he had climbed up years ago, scanned the crowds for him, he would run. 

Steve wrapped his arms around his middle, tucking his head down and trying to feel years of longing through a one-sided hug. 

An hour later, he sent the letter out. And so began the longest wait of his life.

~

It was over. Years of war, over. He doesn’t believe it when he hears the news, but it’s the truth, and when he realizes this, he can’t calm down. Popping open a bottle of his father’s old gin, he hollered to the ceiling and jumped, turning the bottle over his face in celebration. His head spun. His heart swelled. He drank. And drank. And drank. Gin, water, fruit juice, anything he could. Outside, people cheered, screamed, waved flags and sobbed. And he found himself stumbling down the steps, joining them in the bright sunlight. 

“Our men,” they cried, “Our men are coming home!” 

A dancing line formed, and Steve tossed his bottle aside to join, twisting his hips and holding the hands of those closest to him, sharing their grins and inability to stand still. Around and around he went, stomach lurching with every twirl, the only coherent thought he had being of James. 

It was over.

He was coming home. 

Weeks later, the celebrations were stronger now that some men had returned. Steve suspected it would be James’ turn soon. Above his apartment, he heard a door slamming and a woman exclaiming, two pairs of laughter and a heavy thud, and though it pained him to not be experiencing that yet, he felt nothing but happiness for them. 

His turn came just a day later. He had been sketching in bed when someone knocked at his front door. The pencil flew, as did the book, and he gasped, catching his foot on the edge of his door trying to get out. 

“James!”

Twisting the doorknob in his hands, he waited for it to open. Locked. His heart was in his throat, body numb.  _ James _ . He got the lock undone, and swung the door open so fast it hit the wall. 

It wasn’t James.

“Are you the one Barnes has been writing to?” 

He nodded. 

“I don’t usually put myself in the middle of private affairs. But I feel you have a right to know about this. He doesn’t have any immediate family?” 

A fist closed around his throat, and he blinked, but shook his head. The man, dressed in a higher-up uniform than James, dug around in his bag and pulled out a white envelope, and a pair of dog tags. Steve took them, wordlessly. 

“He’s MIA, has been since January. We assumed he had just gotten lost, but with his dog tags left behind—“

Steve stopped listening. He couldn’t stand there and hear about how they thought James was— he wasn’t— he couldn’t be. They needed to hug, to dance, to kiss. 

“I’m truly sorry, I am.”

He shook his head, giving a ghostly smile before closing the door and stumbling forward. Hooking the dog tags over his neck, he set the letter down on the kitchen table and stared at it, still smiling. His confession, unopened and thus unread. 

Walking to his bedroom in a trance, he closed the door behind him. 


End file.
